


Painted Blind

by collatorsden_archivist



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Angst, Crack, PG - Green Cortina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-06
Updated: 2008-04-06
Packaged: 2019-01-20 19:52:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12440424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collatorsden_archivist/pseuds/collatorsden_archivist
Summary: The course of true love never did run smoothly.





	Painted Blind

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Janni, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [the Collators' Den](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Collators%27_Den), which was moved to the AO3 to ensure access and longevity for the fanworks. I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Collators' Den collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/collatorsden/profile).

Once upon a time, there was a small boy called Sammy Tyler. Although a normal observer would never have expected it of him, he had quite a penchant for getting into trouble.

 

 

Of course, the teachers at school all blamed it on a lack of strict parental guidance. They all agreed that his mum, Ruth, did the best she could within her means, but that there was no way she could ever hope to make up for his lack of a firm, adult, _male_ hand to guide him.

 

 

To a certain extent, this meant that the boy was a bit stiff and self-righteous and spoiled. Whereas other children had met with much harsher punishments for much smaller offences, little Sammy was usually let off with a stern "now promise to never, ever do that again and say you're sorry." Which he then would unfailingly do. And every time he did it, he sounded utterly sincere---no matter whether it was the third or the thirtieth time. 

 

 

Take the time his mum, thinking to bolster his sagging confidence, entered him in a spelling competition. Being of sound (if somewhat overly-analytical) mind, little Sammy looked forward to beating all comers. He sat in his room strategising for weeks on end once his mum had told him what she'd done. He always reasoned that it was best to be prepared, so he spent a lot of quality time with his dictionary. With encyclopaedias. With books of all kinds. Ruth had long since stopped worrying that her son spent so much time alone; she thought it better that she had a quiet, thoughtful son than the sort of child who would grow up to gamble away all their money, run off, and leave her. Or worse yet, turn to a life of crime. No, indeed, a quiet, bookish son was where it was at. Perhaps not quite ideal, but very nearly so---and besides, who was counting? She loved him all the same. Mental distance, she'd learnt how to handle; at least that sort of distance was not physical.

 

 

And so, he'd studied. And practised. Ruth quizzed him on random words at random intervals, and he always did exceedingly well. He was fairly certain he was ready.

 

 

That was, of course, until the actual day of the contest.

 

 

It all began innocently enough, of course. Until little Sammy was asked to spell "coxswain." 

 

 

He couldn't help it one bit. He snorted. He laughed. He guffawed. And sounded downright filthy doing it, all the moreso because he'd tried so very hard to restrain himself. 

 

 

He and his mother received a stern reprimand, and he was disallowed from ever entering any further such competitions. He was also asked to write a conciliatory essay which would be read aloud at the next-such competition, to be held in a month's time. 

 

 

This he gladly did, and indeed, it was the start of something new for young Sammy. From that point forward, he kept a notebook and some sort of writing implement handy at all times. 

 

 

It wasn't a diary. Those were kept separately. Instead, it was a log, of sorts. Every wrong he'd ever committed, every person he ever felt that he'd slighted---it was all there. Very obliquely, to be sure; the only way to crack the code of course was to actually have the now-adult Sam's brain, a claim to which very few could lay. 

 

 

Every evening, he'd catalog the day's indiscretions one by one. Every trifle, every misgiving, every single slight he'd ever meted out...he wrote lengthy, heartfelt apologies for. Sometimes he'd play with various forms of poetry, when he felt particularly creative. Sometimes he'd write them out in the form of song lyrics. Other times, long essays were in order; it all depended on his state of mind, more than anything. 

 

 

That was the true reason why he was upset about 1973: all his hard work was gone. 

 

 

Still, he welcomed a challenge. He went out of his way to push the Guv's buttons on a daily basis just to get new material. 

 

 

"Look, I'm sorry I---" Sam would often begin, and he'd always mean it.

 

 

"Not _nearly_ as sorry as you're gonna be. I'm the sheriff in this town, Gladys, and don't you ever forget it!" Gene would say. Or something very similar. Fisticuffs would be exchanged, and dust-ups would be had, and eventually a conclusion would be reached. Never once did Gene apologise. Never once did Sam let him have the satisfaction---it was for him, and him alone.

 

 

Even here, it was still his own private and most secret indulgence as he put pen to paper and stared longingly and consideringly at its edges, contemplating how best to fill its murky, lurid depths. Reverently, his kissed the tip of his pen and began to write. It was a ritual, and it was comforting, and it was home.


End file.
